


by moonshine do the green sour ringlets make

by evocates



Series: tempestuous [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM Scene, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: ‘Charlie’ was for his family, before he became a disappointment; ‘Charles’ for after he transmogrified. ‘Ben’ was meant for the club, and then Madison took it and coiled his tongue around the sound to make it his own. He hadn’t been an ‘Adams’ in years.
  There was not a single name left in his hands that had not been dirtied somehow, filled with the stench of memories from the deep swamp he had tried to bury them all in.Charles Adams in the wake of James Madison. Coda to a fever of the mad.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crotalus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crotalus/gifts).



> Months upon months ago, Al asked me for a fic with Charles Adams/Ben for her birthday. One novel-length fic and one original novel later, I finally deliver.
> 
> Again, this does not make any sense without reading _a fever of the mad_. Please read that monster first.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Self-loathing and self-destructive behaviours, mixed with BDSM kink that involves dirty talk.

_Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,_  
_And ye that on the sands with printless foot_  
_Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him_  
_When he comes back; you demi-puppets that_  
_By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,_  
_Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime_  
_Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice_  
_To hear the solemn curfew_  
      _The Tempest,_ Act 5 Scene 1

_December 16, Friday_

The lines in his life had been cut by his names. ‘Charlie’ was for his family, before he became a disappointment; ‘Charles’ for after he transmogrified. ‘He hadn’t been ‘Adams’ in years. ‘Ben’ was meant for the club, and then Madison took it and coiled his tongue around the sound to make it his own.

There was not a single name left in his hands that had not been dirtied somehow, filled with the stench of memories from the deep swamp he had tried to bury them all in. But he needed one still, and he knew exactly what it meant when he chose ‘Ben.’ Even though it was impossible for him to dip into swamp for particular filth to stick to his body, he chose, nonetheless.

It gave him the illusion of having skin, blinding himself to the raw, bleeding wounds that covered his entire body. It allowed him to ignore the roaring festers.

Like now: strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross, his eyes blindfolded. There was a hand splayed between his shoulderblades, and breaths warm and wet against his neck. He had cut his hair short last month, watched the curls fall to the ground, too dark to be braided leather but just close enough to pretend.

“You like that don’t you, slut?” Three fingers drove deep inside him, twisting. Nails scraped over his prostate, and Ben muffled a yell through his bitten-broken lip. “Just look at you. You’re already hungry for more.”

He lifted his hips as much as he could, his hands shuddering in the chains that pinned him to the wooden cross. Tomorrow was a two-show day, and so was the day after, but Ben was an ensemble member with no ambitions to be a principal. If his father told him he was a disappointment to spur him to something better, then this was his rebellion.

“Please,” he choked out. The word bubbled, blood-filled. “Please, sir. Please give me more.”

His skin was on fire and his spine a lightning rod of pain, but his mind still continued. He had never looked for hurt before this. It had never worked on him: this twisting ache and the flames that crept below skin to torture the nerves had always been familiar.

A slap across his mouth, stinging. “Y’know how to beg prettier than that,” the voice growled, a low rumble that Ben could feel against the back of his ribs. “You gotta give me something better than that.”

“Sorry, sir.” Ben pressed his forehead against the cross. His hips rocked even harder, more desperately, at the cue of those fingers scraping lines down his back. “I- I don’t know how to beg better. But I really want more, sir. Please.” He hitched his voice higher. “ _Please_.”

Madison had never wanted him to beg; Madison had never needed him to beg. Soft but strong, Madison always held authority in a way John Adams could only dream of: his eyes sharp enough to see the threads that held a person’s being together, and his fingers gentle enough to pluck them almost without their noticing. Madison pretended to be kind while his hand spread beneath Ben’s ribs, strong enough to let him fly, cruel enough to drop him. Madison breathed and Ben wanted to pleased him; Madison existed and Ben wanted to fall to his knees.

But Madison didn’t want him anymore. Madison was on a quest to learn true kindness, and he wanted Ben only as a friend. Ben, with too many names and none to call his own, had never understood friendship. Ben had only known change, turning his back to what he once had for something different in hopes that this other, twisting route would lead him to the same destination.

It never did, but he couldn’t help but try. There was no other alternative; all of his wounds bled so slowly that they could not kill him.

The hand gripped the back of his shorn head, and slammed him against the wood of the cross. Ben could not breathe, but fingers twisted inside him, making him gasp. His cock rubbed hard against the rough wool his new Sir had wrapped around his hips, and he found himself rising. 

“Come for me, slut.” 

Fingers wrapped around his throat, the thumb driving into the hollow of his neck. Ben squeezed his eyes shut and let himself fall. 

There was no cliff, no beauty beyond the edge, but he had learned since Madison that there wouldn’t be. 

The body that shoved against his back, pressing him down, was long and whippet-lean. Coiled strength instead of bulk. Ben squeezed his eyes shut and kept moving his hips. The growls in his ear were too high-pitched for him to pretend, but he didn’t want to pretend anyway, so that was surely a good thing. He bit more ribbons into his lip when he felt Sir come.

A warm splatter across his back, filthy. Fingers rubbed it deep into his skin. Ben tried to breathe, shivering.

Sir’s blindfold was made of satin, expensive, and he was soaking it with his tears when hands released him. He fell backwards, weak, into arms that trembled and legs that stumbled when they caught him. His heels hit the floor. He was dragged back like a sack towards a chair, and the body that held him was really too small to hold him properly.

“Good boy,” the voice whispered. The blindfold was pulled off, and Ben had to close his eyes himself because there was no hand to block out his light. A thumb stroked over his cheek. “You’ve been such a good boy.”

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he needed. But it should be. It should be and that was what he tried to believe. But Ben had never been good at holding onto things.

At least his new Sir held him as the tears kept falling.

***

_December 19, Monday_

The wind was too cold and biting for him to stand outside like this, even if he had his coat on. But he needed his nicotine fix, so he closed his mouth around the yellow paper wrapping the filter and lit up. 

Winter was for cigarettes, summer for vapes. Ben liked his deep lines to demarcate. Besides, these meeting had always been bad for him, so what was one more harm to add to the unending list?

He had just finished when a ball of clothing approached him. Ben blinked at the sight, his lips twitching up despite himself.

“You’re really bad with the cold, huh?” 

Madison didn’t answer, instead jerking his head towards the restaurant before heading inside. Ben followed him. Their footsteps were mismatched, and he spent the time while Madison spoke to the staff with his hands shoved inside his pockets, telling himself that it shouldn’t matter.

They were led towards a booth at the back of the restaurant, with plenty of privacy. Ben could never figure out how Madison always managed to find places like these: big enough that there were seats with privacy, with decent food, and yet the price range low enough that Ben with his Broadway performer salary could actually afford it.

It was, he knew, an effort Madison made – given who and what he was, he had no reason to look for cheap places to meet. He should appreciate it.

But he didn’t. It just wasn’t enough.

He took off his jacket and beanie, waiting while Madison dealt with his multiple layers. When Madison said, “You’ve cut your hair,” he laughed. 

“No, all of the strands just fell off by themselves.” He flopped onto the booth seat, stretching out his legs until his heel bumped against the foot of Madison’s seat, obnoxiously loud. “It’s just what happens sometimes, you know?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never had such an experience,” Madison said, voice dry.

The waiter came over, then, offering them menus. Ben took them and used the opportunity to duck his head down to read it, eyes blankly scanning the pictures and words. They didn’t talk until they ordered, and then afterwards…

Their interactions were normal amongst friends. Or they seemed so, given Ben’s very limited experience with friendships, especially outside the theatre community. With them, there were always secrets: things he could not say, things they would not ask. Out of consideration for him, he knew, but it created gaps too wide, too spacious, for his arm to ever reach across.

With Madison, it was different. It was everything Ben _would_ say, everything he _did_ say.

“So Jefferson decided to go pro bono, huh?”

Look, whatever his history looked like, whatever his father liked to say, Ben wasn’t exactly a stupid person. He knew exactly what he was doing; knew the concept of self-sabotage like the back of his own hand. But knowing had never meant _stopping_.

Why should he, really?

“Yes,” Madison said. He looked at Ben with those dark eyes of his, the shadows within so sharp that they threatened to strip Ben to the bone, drain all of the pus from his festering wounds so he could no longer hide behind them. “Do you want to speak about him?”

Ben put his elbow on his chin, and looked at Madison. “Who else can we talk about?”

“Surely there’s plenty,” Madison murmured. “For example, what’s happening at your job?”

Laughing, Ben shook his head. He should’ve known better than to expect Madison to ask about the hair. Especially after he brought up Jefferson.

“I don’t think that a lawyer would want to know about backstage shenanigans and the minute changes of every performance,” he said, lips quirking up into a crooked smile.

“Try me.”

“No,” Ben widened his smile. “I really don’t think you want me to.”

They had already tried each other plenty before, and they shouldn’t even be thinking about doing it anymore. 

“Are you sure that’s the line of conversation you want to pursue?” Madison asked.

Careful, so very careful. Like Ben was fragile.

“Sure,” he laughed. “What better conversation topic could we find except for the man who brought us together?”

There wasn’t really any bitterness to his voice: he was stating a fact. It was Ben’s eerie resemblance to Jefferson that allowed him to borrow Madison and everything he brought along: the leather strips and the temporary peace and ease he could find within himself.

Madison was still looking at him. Before Ben could laugh again to dismiss the stare, Madison said, “Would you like to meet him?”

“What?”

“Like you said, he’s the one who brought us together, though indirectly and unintentionally.” _Through my own bad choices,_ Madison did not say, but Ben heard anyway. “Besides, he has been introducing me to a few of his friends lately, so I think it’s perfectly appropriate for him to meet one of mine.”

 _One of_. Ben smiled, baring teeth, and leaned in. “Shall I tell him then that you were playing with me while pretending that I was him?”

“That wasn’t my intention when I started,” Madison said. He was still so calm, calmer than the ocean by which Ben had grown up. At least the ocean could be moved by thunderstorms. “And it was only one time when I used you as a substitute for him.”

“I find that rather hard to believe,” Ben said. He flapped a hand as emphasis.

“It’s the truth, nonetheless,” Madison told him. He took a sip of his water, his eyes never leaving Ben’s. “Your needs are very different from his.”

So he wasn’t just a substitute, but a bad one as well. Ben’s fingers itched for a cigarette. He wished that he hadn’t come. He wished he could interpret people’s words to be something better than the worst possible conclusion.

But those were futile wishes. Like every other one that he ever owned.

Lidding his eyes, he looked away out to the window. It was too early for snow, so there was only wet asphalt and sidewalks to look at, with brief flashes of people hurrying by, clutching their coats tight to their chests.

The food arrived. Silence sat between them. Madison didn’t try to speak. He had always waited, so patiently, for Ben to find his reactions, his words. Never once interrupting, grounding with touch instead. But now he was all the way over there on the other side of the table, and the silence felt hollow. Like its core had been scooped out, and Ben was left with nothing.

“You haven’t answered my questions,” he said finally.

“I cannot answer until I know if you will be willing to meet him,” Madison said. He had picked up his fork, but his plate was still untouched. “If you are, then I will tell him beforehand the relationship we used to have, and that we are now friends.”

“And nothing more?”

Cocking his head, Madison smiled. He speared a tomato, and ate it. “I don’t believe friendship should be devalued in that manner.”

“So says the man whose entire world seems to revolve around the one he loves,” Ben said. When Madison’s eyes flicked up to him, he smirked, and hoarded that small victory in the cavern of his chest. “It’s pretty obvious, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Madison said. He put down his fork again, looking at Ben. “But it doesn’t mean that you’re not important to me.”

But Ben had never wanted to be a moon. He might control the tides, but the waters were simply one part of the rich life Madison had away from him; the life sustained by Jefferson, his sun. Ben was too selfish, too self-centred; he wanted to be a sun instead, and give warmth instead of being a pale reflection of it.

There was no point in telling Madison that. Madison already knew, and there was nothing he could do to assuage Ben’s desires. 

“I’ll think about it,” he said, which was no answer at all.

“Will you tell me what your answer is?”

Madison no longer had a contract that obliged Ben to tell, and so he now asked. Was it for Jefferson’s sake, or his? He didn’t know, and he didn’t think that he would have an answer even if he asked and Madison was willing to tell. Because Madison knew him so well; knew him enough to carve in marble a sculpture of Ben dissected with both the insides and outsides accurate.

For him, Madison was still in the shadow, and he knew what was revealed was only what Madison wanted him to see. What their relationship had used to be was supposed to depend on equality, but that had never existed between them.

“Guess so,” he said. He made to eat. “Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

All he had left were his bitter wants and petty victories.

They ate. The rest of their conversation was meaningless, boring: about Madison’s cases, and a stranger named Aaron Burr that Ben had read from the papers and seen in the club but had never spoken to. If asked later, he would only remember the distinct sense of reaching out, constantly, and finding a half-real wrist within his grasp that he could not fully hold, and fingers that did not try to close around his.

When Madison left early, Ben did not ask why he did. He knew who Madison was going home to, and that was already too much knowledge for him. At least Madison paid the bill beforehand.

He was finishing up his dessert and staring out of the window when someone slipped into the booth seat opposite. In the place that was, he supposed, still warmed by Madison’s body.

Turning, he stared. The face was familiar: broad with high cheekbones, framed by intricate braids that hung down loose around his face. Ben knew the face; knew the name he was supposed to use in the club before he was on his knees, and the term he should when he could not see anything.

But he didn’t know the name he should use, right now. Out here where there were high windows and no thick walls to keep the world out. 

“Hi, I’m Jeremy.” his new Sir said, and smiled. 

The expression was so strange on him. Ben had never seen him smile before; not even once. Even during their first negotiations, his face had been stern, lips thin and eyes narrowed in an attempt to spit fire.

“Same initial as Jake, but everything else is different.” A hand reached out towards Ben. It hovered above the table.

“Are you mocking me?” Too harsh and entirely without the obedience demanded of him back in the club. But those rules didn’t apply here, under these bright lights.

But the man only sighed. His hand dropped down onto the table, and he leaned backwards. Half-sprawled on the booth seat. His eyes were a softer shade than Madison’s, but his gaze was just as dark.

“The guy who just left.” He crossed his arms, drummed his fingers on top of one bicep. “That’s why I’m the replacement for, isn’t it?”

Ben opened his mouth.

“It’s really obvious that what I’ve been doing so far isn’t what you actually need,” the man continued. “Sure, I can make you come. But I’m not such a beginner at this that I think that’s actually the end goal.”

“Are we actually having this conversation?” Ben hissed at him. “Right _here_?”

“Why not?” The bastard had the audacity to look _confused_. “Where else would I get a chance for you to talk to me?”

He tried to stand up, but there was a hand wrapped around his wrist, the nail of the thumb digging straight between the thin bones.

“Where else can I talk to you that you can’t leave without making a scene?” There was that smile again, but it was darker, now. “Sit down.”

Ben sat down.

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” he said. Petulant, perhaps, but that seemed to be his only resort at the moment.

“That’s fine by me,” the man said. He let go of Ben, splaying his hands on the table instead. “I just need you to listen.”

Tipping his head up, Ben glared. The man only smiled. It showed teeth, and somehow still looked rather sweet.

“See, I know who he is,” he jerked his head towards the door, clearly meaning Madison. “He has a bit of a reputation. When some of the senior Doms heard that I’m taking you on, they told me that I’m going to have big shoes to fill.”

So the rumours that the Doms gossiped amongst themselves were true, after all. Ben wasn’t particularly surprised; Wilmot even gave the subs their own room to do exactly that in the club.

“At the time, I was arrogant enough to tell them that it would be fine.” His smile widened. “After a couple of sessions, I realised it wasn’t fine. I realised that you’ve been lying to me about what you want.”

Dragging a hand over his head, Ben gave him a flat look. “Do you want to break the contract, then?”

“No,” the man said. 

“But I’m breaking the rules,” Ben said, confused now. “Far worse than you are right now.” Correct communication was the cardinal law. The partner of anyone who broke them could immediately dissolve the contract without any questions being asked.

Leaning in, the man swept a hand to the side. “You’re not making me give up on you so easily.” He rested his elbow on the table, and dropped his head into his open palm. “You’re not making me abandon you so you can keep destroying yourself.”

A chill ran down Ben’s spine. He straightened, and his breath caught in his throat instead. “For a man making so many assumptions about me, you’re not even giving me your real name.”

“Weren’t you just talking about breaking rules?” He was starting to hate that smile, but the man shrugged. “Philip Schuyler.”

What? Too late; he realised he said that out loud.

“Pardon me,” the man who was _definitely_ not the previous Senator of New York said. “Philip _Jeremiah_ Schuyler, the lesser-known Philip Schuyler, nephew to the more famous one.” 

And thus the cousin of the Schuyler sisters: the oldest now the newest District Attorney of New York City, the middle sister one of the city’s most famous philanthropists, and the youngest a famous photographer. 

He had heard of there being other Schuylers, of course. But none who had ever seemed _important_.

Suddenly, Ben understood: why Jeremy decided to invade this booth; why Jeremy had approached him in the club in the first place. 

Even when Ben thought he had made a choice, it seemed that he was chosen instead.

“You knew who I was.” His hand clenched on top of the table. “That’s why you picked me.”

“Was I not supposed to pick someone that I knew I would be interested in?” There was something oily and thick in his voice. “I didn’t realise that I’m actually supposed to pick blindly and hope everything goes best.”

There were false names and masks, profiles and questionnaires, all for the sake of secrecy. And here was this man, flouting every single rule.

 _To choose you_ , a voice told him. Ben ignored it.

Instead, he shook his head, nails digging into his palm. “You know that’s not what I mean,” he said. “Do you really believe that no rules apply to you? That you’re so _special_ ,” he drawled out the word, “that no rules apply?”

“Oh no,” Jeremy said, smiling lopsided again. “I know plenty that I’m not special; so un-special that, amidst everyone special, I have gained my own uniqueness.”

That didn’t even make any sense.

“But I don’t believe in breaking every rule, no,” Jeremy said. “Only those that I don’t see worth following.”

He leaned forward. “Because if I keep following those rules, I’ll become just like anyone else.” His hand hovered above Ben’s fist. “Or worse, I’ll fail.”

Ben should punch that smile right out of that face. But he was frozen, like the core of him where all of the threads of his being had tangled together had been driven into by a knife. He could only stare.

“You—” His voice caught in his throat.

“There’s a reason why I chose you specifically, you know,” Jeremy told him. “And I’m not letting you go.”

Men like these were poison, Ben knew; men who thought they knew best, arrogant and self-righteous in their beliefs. They could break a man without even actively trying.

“Not until you tell me what you want,” Jeremy continued. His thumb stroked over Ben’s knuckles, the touch soft and gentle. “Not until I have truly and genuinely failed to give it to you.”

By then it would be too late, and Ben would be completely shattered.

He should refuse. He should head to the Debauchee right now, and talk to Wilmot about dissolving the contract. He should walk away right now, and not sit here staring into the lion’s mouth with its teeth full of fangs.

But Ben was tired of being like this. Perhaps being broken apart utterly was what he needed. Perhaps he needed to fly too close to the sun and, like Icarus, have his wings burnt until he crashed down to the sea and drowned. Maybe he needed the seawater to choke him until the void inside him was filled.

If this would destroy him, then he would let it. He had tried so many ways already, and there would be some victory, at least, if this succeeded.

Twisting his wrist, he gripped Jeremy’s hand tight. He met those dark eyes and brought the hand up, and pressed the knuckles to his lips.

“Friday,” he said. 

Jeremy stood up. He did not pull his hand away, instead walking over to the side of the table. The fingers of his other hand rose. As Ben watched, smooth, ebony-skinned knuckles brushed over his own cheek.

“I look forward to it eagerly.” His teeth flashed between his lips. “Karl.”

Another name. Ben’s breath hitched. He watched him leave. Skinny shoulders and thin wrists, his long braids swaying behind him.

Then he put down his part of the bill on the table, grabbed his coat, and left the restaurant.

The wind had turned even colder, a howling gale on the tops of the building. He covered the end of his cigarette before he lit it, blowing smoke upwards. The chill sank into his lungs, undeterred by the embers’ heat.

Five drags: his father, his mother, his sister, his brother, and Madison. Then he threw the cigarette into a nearby drain, and headed to the subway with his coat slung over his shoulders and his thumbs hooked over the belt loop of his jeans. 

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Jeremy was watching. He could feel those dark eyes like a collar around his neck; a metal one, imprinted with his new name.

It was tight enough to choke, but the weight was comforting.

**Author's Note:**

> Jeremy/Jake/Ben’s new Dom/Philip Jeremiah Schuyler is played by [Chris Lee](http://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/584548b4e708bafac6ae0795a75334ef0c17208d/c=10-0-306-395&r=537&c=0-0-534-712/local/-/media/2016/07/13/TennGroup/Nashville/636040097039116268-chris-lee.jpg) (yes, Chicago’s Lafayette/Jefferson; my brain makes strange connections), while Ben/Charles Adams is played, like in _fever_ , by a young, clean-shaven version of Daveed Diggs. 
> 
> In history, Philip Jeremiah Schuyler was the Schuyler sisters' very accomplished brother. Here, he is their much-less-accomplished cousin. This is the one of the very few historical relationships I’ve changed in the entire ‘verse.
> 
> There are pretty much no pure and healthy relationships in this ‘verse. The only possibility is Maria/Eliza, and they appeared for like one scene. I’m not even sorry at this point.


End file.
